How the Rogue Stole Christmas

by Rosemary Stevens

  Lady Altham looked like a cross child as she stood and performed the introductions with her arms folded in front of her body.

  To Margery, Oliver Westerville’s dress and manners seemed impeccable. Although she thought he gazed overlong at the bodice of her gown, he managed to put her at her ease, remarking on the unusually snowy weather they had been having, and relating an amusing incident of his own travel to the Midlands from Town.

  This reminded Margery of her purpose. She took a deep breath. “Lady Altham, it grieves me to say this, but I am afraid your household has been invaded by an absolute rogue. He followed me here all the way from the Two Keys Inn.”

  Lady Altham regarded her with open skepticism but did not have a chance to reply to the allegation because suddenly Mr. Westerville clapped his gloved hands. “Jordan, my friend! I have beaten you here as I knew I would. I wager you never took your grays out of the stable in such weather.”

  Margery turned slowly around, intense astonishment growing on her pale face. She stared at the new arrival, tongue-tied.

  Lord Reckford’s eyes lit with amusement at her reaction, but he gave no outward sign that he had met her before. After bowing to the ladies, he addressed Mr. Westerville, though his gaze frequently rested on Margery. “Hello, Oliver. Good to see you. Of course I left the grays in London. Harry and I made our way up here with posting-house cattle.”

  Listening to him, Margery thought she would die from embarrassment, for she could only conclude Lord Reckford was an invited member of the house party after all. He had let her go on thinking he had followed her to Altham House, while all the time he had just as much right to be here as she. The conceited churl! He had made rare sport of her and was thoroughly enjoying himself into the bargain.

  Margery clamped her jaws together in sudden irritation.

  Lady Altham, still pouting from having her tete-a-tete interrupted, performed the formal introductions. To Margery’s relief, her ladyship seemed to have ignored Margery’s previous reference to a housebreaker.

  “Lady Margery, how happy I am to meet you.” Lord Reckford’s gaze dropped to where her fists were tightly clenched at her side. He reached out one gloved hand.

  Margery did not raise hers.

  Lady Altham and Oliver Westerville stood watching them curiously. An awkward moment ensued.

  Margery relented, mentally consigning his lordship to the devil, and allowed him to lift her gloved hand to his lips. Completely against her will, she felt a warm rush of heat enter her body at the contact. To make matters worse, as Lord Reckford bent his head to place the kiss at her knuckles, he winked at her. No one else witnessed this bold action.

  Margery burned with indignation. The man was a rogue.

  Lady Altham seemed to conclude that since her opportunity for private conversation with Mr. Westerville was at an end, she might as well embark on her matchmaking scheme. “Lord Reckford, Lady Margery is a widow. She lives with her companion nearby, quite out of Society, although she is the Marquess of Edgecombe’s daughter.” Lady Altham poked him familiarly. “Fortunate she doesn’t go about much in tonnish company, ain’t it? Otherwise a taking thing like her would have been snapped up by now.”

  Lord Reckford smiled easily and said, “Christmas has always been a time of good fortune for me. It seems this year will be no exception.”

  He was correct, all right, Margery thought, shooting his lordship a black look. This Christmas would be no exception. It promised to be as much a disaster as the last three.

  Lady Altham beamed at the two young people, convinced she had set a romance in motion.

  Mr. Westerville appeared thoughtful.

  Margery hardly knew where to look. This was worse than anything she had imagined. She had been out of Society far too long and had forgotten what an effort it often was to maintain the required composure.

  “I knew your father in my younger days, Lady Margery. But I have not seen him this age. And I believe I might have played cards with your husband. Simon Fortescue, was he not?” Mr. Westerville inquired.

  “Yes, sir, ‘twas he. And like many gentlemen, Simon loved to game, so it is entirely possible you might have shared a game of cards,” Margery answered, her stomach tightening into a knot.

  Just how much did Mr. Westerville know about Simon? Would Simon, while in his cups, have told his gaming partners about his silly little wife and her efforts to engage his affections? Would the gentlemen, comfortably ensconced in their clubs, have laughed about the naïve girl’s expectations of what her marriage should have been?

  Mr. Westerville was watching her closely. “It was Christmas-tide two years ago when he died, was it not?”

  To her horror, Margery felt tears form in her eyes. The long-familiar grief welled up in her breast.

  Mr. Westerville immediately produced a handkerchief and was all apologies. “I most humbly beg your pardon, Lady Margery. Usually, I am not so completely ham-handed.”

  “You are never without feeling, Oliver,” Lady Altham defended her beau. “Lady Margery is being overly sentimental. After all, it’s been two years, Margery, and you should not still be engaging in tears at the mention of your husband’s name.”

  “Pray forgive me,” Margery said, refusing the handkerchief. “I am, as Lady Altham says, too, er, sentimental at this time of year. You have done nothing wrong, Mr. Westerville.”

  “If not, then you must call me Oliver.”

  Margery gave him a tentative smile. Though there was a hint of a ladies’ man about him, he seemed harmless. She believed he had not really meant to cause such a strong reaction in her.

  Margery felt Lord Reckford’s intense gaze upon her before he moved to a nearby table to pour himself a glass of wine, a pensive look on his face.

  She wanted to sink. Here she had been accusing his lordship of being at Altham House under false pretenses when she was the one who was guilty of subterfuge: Her grief over Simon was for what a marriage should have been, not for what was.

  The truth was that she did not miss Simon. She did not mourn Simon. She barely remembered loving Simon.

  How could she miss his drunken rages? How could she miss his sober indifference? His cold disregard for the destruction of all her hopes and dreams. His lack of remorse for having led her to believe theirs was a love match when, in fact, he cared nothing for her. She had not been in the least surprised to learn he had drunk himself to death after two days of uninterrupted drinking and card playing in one of the lower gambling hells.

  But it would never do to let the Polite World know the reality about their unconsummated marriage or her feelings since her husband’s death. Better to let them all think she mourned Simon still. It served the additional purpose of keeping the gentlemen at bay.

  Margery found she had been woolgathering while the company in the room increased. To divert her attention from hurtful memories of her husband, she surveyed the occupants of the room.

  Blythe, Lady Lindsay, was joined by her husband and three children. “Mama,” Lady Lindsay said, “I thought that since we are a small party tonight, the children might be allowed to dine with us.”

  Lady Altham nodded absently. She was once again flirting with Oliver Westerville.

  Mrs. Norwood gave tongue. “Heavens, Blythe, I hope this will be the only evening you will bring them down. They have a perfectly good nurse and a perfectly good nursery upstairs, which is where they belong. My Georgina is only now of an age to be included in polite company, and I still have to watch her carefully. She suffers from a zealous excess of emotion which cannot be considered at all the thing in a young lady.”

  Mr. Norwood’s face colored as red as his hair at his wife’s cutting remarks. He nervously wandered to where Miss Charlotte Hudson was seated in the corner of the room. That lady’s complexion heightened at his approach, but she pointed to a picture in a leather-bound book on America she had been studying and the two fell into quiet conversation.

  The Lindsays stood protectively ar
ound their children and called their attention to a large portrait that hung over the fireplace of Lady Lindsay and Mrs. Norwood as young girls. “Aunt Prudence looked mean even then,” Venetia whispered to her giggling sister.

  Standing alone by the window, seventeen-year-old Miss Georgina Norwood contrived to appear as if she had not heard her mama’s comment or Venetia’s whispered words.

  Really, Margery thought, it was too bad the way Mrs. Norwood treated her family.

  Margery had spent a convivial hour with Georgina before dressing for dinner, talking over gowns and debating the use of cosmetics, and liked the girl very much. Georgina had knocked on her bedchamber door while Margery had been resting.

  “Oh, I’m not disturbing you, am I?” Georgina had asked brightly when Miss Bessamy had come running from her own bedchamber, looking as if she would protect her charge.

  Margery had wiped the sleep from her eyes, introduced herself, and welcomed the younger woman inside, sending Bessie back to her own room with a smile.

  “I am Miss Georgina Norwood. I hope you don’t think me overly forward, but I heard a lady of fashion was here for the Christmas house party and thought you might advise me. I am desperate!”

  Margery chuckled. “Well, I hardly consider myself of the first stare, living as I do rather secluded in a small village.”

  “But you have lived in London, I know. I heard my mother talking to my grandmother, Lady Altham, all about you.”

  “Oh?” Margery’s brows rose as she sat in a chair by the fire and indicated its twin for Georgina.

  “Yes,” Georgina said, sitting down with a flounce. “Grandmama said it was outrageous that a lady of breeding should be burying herself away in the country with no amusements.”

  “I assure you, I am quite content.”

  Georgina frowned. “Well, I cannot see how you would be, after living in Town. Next spring I am to have my Season, and I can hardly wait. The country is so boring! I only wish it were Aunt Blythe, Lady Lindsay, that is, who would be bringing me out, instead of Mama. Mama will continue to make Papa’s life a misery even in Town.”

  Margery wondered at the girl’s unhappy expression and, after careful questioning, learned that Mrs. Norwood had no use for her daughter, bitterly resenting the fact that she had not given birth to a son. The result in Georgina was an increase in the insecurity females were already prone to at that age.

  Margery felt a surge of pity, and perhaps sympathy, for a girl whose parent thought ill of her child. She well remembered her pain at her father’s displeasure at her choice of husbands. They had never been close, but the marquess’s subsequent action of declaring he would have nothing to do with his only child had cut Margery to the heart nevertheless.

  After discussing the latest fashion in gowns and pelisses, Margery allowed the girl to look over her dresses. “Goodness, these are all very fashionable, Lady Margery,” Georgina pronounced.

  “Do you think so?” Margery asked, her eyes twinkling at the awed way the girl handled the precious silks and velvets.

  “Indeed. You will be the prettiest lady at the house party.”

  Margery laughed. “The gentlemen will surely be struck by your beautiful red-gold curls, Georgina, and your emerald eyes. I declare I shall be cast into the shade.”

  Georgina pulled a face. “Alas, for my freckles. No, I’m quite serious! That is the question I most particularly wish to ask you. I have tried Crème de l’Enclos, Gowland’s Lotion, and barley water. I’ve even mixed vinegar and niter with Oil of Ben, which is supposed to be most efficacious, but nothing has helped.”

  Shaking her head, Margery said, “Your dusting of freckles will only serve to further endear you to the gentlemen. You will see.”

  Georgina pouted and vowed she would find a way to rid herself of the affliction. “Perhaps I shall approach Colette. She is Grandmama’s lady’s maid and French. Only, well, I am a little intimidated by Colette. Will you help me, Lady Margery?”

  Margery had assured her she would. After spending time with Georgina, Margery had gained the impression that the girl was much more like her merry Aunt Blythe, whom Margery had met briefly in the library, than her mother. Margery found she agreed with Georgina that her come-out would be a much happier one if Lady Lindsay were sponsoring her.

  Now, in the drawing room, Margery smiled at Georgina, and the girl walked away from her place by the window to stand at Margery’s side. The young widow impulsively placed a sympathetic arm around Georgina and hugged her, ignoring Mrs. Norwood’s raised brow.

  Lord Reckford rejoined the group, and the youth who had been traveling with Lord Reckford at the Two Keys Inn also entered the room. The young man took note of Margery and Georgina and strolled over to stand before them. To Margery’s relief he did not appear to recognize her as the woman in her nightclothes at the inn.

  “Harry, where have you been?” Lord Reckford asked. “I knockedd at your chamber door before coming downstairs, but you did not answer. Let me introduce you around.”

  Lord Harry bowed and gave his boyish grin. Margery noted with some degree of aggravation that she did not have the same warm reaction when Lord Harry kissed the back of her hand as she had when Lord Reckford had performed the same action.

  Lord Harry would have repeated the act with Georgina had that young lady not snatched her hand away just in time. Margery reflected that the charming Lord Harry was unfortunately trying to ape the actions of his older friend.

  The younger lord turned from Georgina with a magnified lack of concern over her rebuff. “Sorry, Jordan, I was doing a little exploring. Bang-up-to-the-mark billiard room you have, Lady Altham.”

  “You are welcome to use it at any time, Lord Harry,” Lady Altham said. “I know how you gentlemen enjoy the game.” She batted her lashes and rapped her fan on Oliver’s arm.

  Lord Harry nodded. “Thank you, my lady, we do indeed. Ain’t that right, Mr. Westerville? By the way, it’s good to meet you at last, sir. Jordan has spoken of you often.”

  Mr. Westerville inclined his head and smiled indulgently. “Please, call me Oliver. I have heard of your exploits as well, Harry.”

  Lord Harry’s expression brightened. “Have you, by George? Did Jordan tell you of the contest we went to in Islington a few weeks back?”

  Ignoring Lord Reckford’s warning look, Lord Harry plowed on. “It was famous, wasn’t it, Jordan? You’ve never seen anything like it, Oliver. Or, I daresay maybe you have, a man of your experience. Well, anyway, this fight was beyond special, as the two combatants were females! By the end of the battle, they both were bloody and almost bare-bosomed in the bargain. I—”

  “Harry!” Lord Reckford’s voice cut ruthlessly through this speech. “A gentleman does not speak of such things in the company of ladies. Apologize at once.”

  Lord Harry looked from Lady Altham’s fascinated face to Georgina’s shocked countenance. Margery knew her own expression must be one of distaste. She was not used to hearing of low behavior by such females.

  “I beg pardon, truly I do,” Lord Harry said. A rueful smile crossed his features, bringing out the twin dimples on either side of his mouth. Hardly anyone could stay angry with such an endearing rascal, and the present company was no exception to this rule.

  Except perhaps for Miss Georgina Norwood. She frowned at Lord Harry and then turned to Margery. In a rather loud voice, she said, “Lady Margery, you have spent a lot of time in London and have no doubt observed the special ways the gentlemen tie their cravats. I have heard of the Mathematical, the Oriental, and the Waterfall.” Here, Georgina tilted her head and stared directly at Lord Harry’s neckcloth. “But I do not think I have ever heard of the Rumpled.”

  Lord Harry stiffened with indignation at this slur against his precious cravat. “It’s plain to see I’m not the only rag-mannered person here.”

  Georgina glared back him.

  It was perhaps fortunate that at that moment Mr. Lemon opened the double doors to the drawing room and an
nounced that dinner was served. The company filed out of the room, with Lady Altham and Mr. Westerville leading the way, defying the conventions. The dowager countess should have accepted Lord Reckford’s arm since he was the highest-ranking gentleman. Margery sighed over her ladyship’s behavior and reluctantly accepted Lord Reckford’s arm.

  “Come, Lady Margery, I shall not bite you,” the viscount murmured for her ears only. “And it will not do to be seen looking at me like I am some sort of insect. People will wonder at it, and then I shall be forced to explain about our meeting at the inn.”

  Margery turned to deliver a retort to this threat, but stopped when she saw the smile playing about his lordship’s lips. She allowed him to lead her to a chair in the large dining room. “You are funning, my lord. For the story would not do your standing in Society any good.”

  “Alas, you are right. People would be bound to marvel at how I showed such restraint with such a beautiful lady.”

  Margery could not prevent a warm little glow at the compliment. In the next instant, though, she reminded herself sternly that the viscount was certainly well versed in the ways of flirtation.

  The table in front of them gleamed with polished silver and multifaceted crystal. Places were set for the fourteen people who were seated with the help of liveried footmen. Margery saw Mr. Lemon glaring at a footman who then hurried to do his bidding. She did not have time to mull over her growing dislike of the house steward.

  Margery bit her lip as Lord Reckford sat next to her, and all too close. She could just detect the bay rum scent he wore and was made even more conscious of the elegance of his person.

  Determined not to let his proximity affect her, she focused her attention on the large mural painted on the wall opposite. This action soon brought her to a blush, however, as the scene depicted was a lush rendition of the Garden of Eden. Trust Lady Altham to have such a thing painted in a public room.

  Margery found herself wishing for the company of Bessie, but that lady had staunchly refused to dine with them. “For I have been of the servant class all my life, dear child, and even though you have elevated me to a companion of sorts, I cannot be comfortable sitting down with my betters.” Despite Margery’s protests, Bessie took her meals in the servants’ hall.